The day was hot and bright as only an autumn day can be, the sky a regal blue, the light golden, the angle of the sun and the sharp edge of the wind hinting at the season’s change. I trudged through a deep rift that split the grass-carpeted hills to the west of the castle, risking a stumble on the rocks that littered the rift bottom and pricks and scratches from the draggle bushes in compensation for the shade.
As I walked, the hairs on my neck began to rise, the creeping sensation that had become so familiar over the past days. Calling myself fifty names for foolish, I hurried my pace and then made a sudden stop beyond the next bend of the rift. Peering back around the corner, I strained to catch some telltale movement or hear a soft footstep. But I didn’t glimpse so much as a hare.
Feeling ridiculous, I tramped back toward the castle. But on the return journey, my eyes were momentarily blinded by an arrow of light from the west battlements. I blinked and caught the glint again. The third time, I smiled in satisfaction. So I wasn’t mad. The only thing out this way for anyone to be observing with a spyglass was me.
The thought of a spyglass turned my thoughts to the Comigor spyholes. When I was ten and sorely lamenting the disdain heaped upon me whenever my eleven-year-old brother ventured into manly pursuits not permitted little sisters, my father had supplied me with a powerful weapon in sibling combat. One of the former lords of Comigor, desiring to know everything that went on in his domain, had installed squints into the Comigor walls and ceilings. The small holes were hidden in the decorative stonework or the capitals of columns or in the intricate carving of a wooden mantelpiece or door frame. If one knew just the right place to stand, in a niche or behind a column, or in the crawls left by stairs or corners or angles, one could press eye or ear to the hole and gain possession of castle secrets. I almost laughed in relief. To spy on the suspicious intruder was such a natural thing for a child. Perhaps I could turn the situation to good purpose.
No spyholes opened into my bedchamber, thank goodness, nor into the little study I’d made from the adjoining room in the north wing, but one of them overlooked the passage outside my door. The passage joined the north wing to the northwest tower stair, and the spyhole was concealed in a stepped molding that matched the rectangular wing to the circular tower. To look through the hole, one had only to lie flat on the first landing of the tower stair and peer through a slot in the dusty wooden floor.
On a day when I had the clear impression that my shadow was with me, I dug about in a cluttered storeroom until I found an old metal box that had a hasp, a working lock, and a key. I set the box in the passage outside my bedchamber door in clear sight of the spyhole. Over the next few days I found occasion to place several wrapped bundles in the box, making sure to lock it carefully after each entry. Having installed no telltales, I had no idea if the box had been moved or examined, but I didn’t believe my spy could get into it.
On a crisp autumn morning, I inserted a last bundle into the box and carried it up the tower stair. Only because I knew to expect them did I notice the disturbed dust on the floor beside the lumpy shape of a moth-eaten rug, crumpled in the corner of the landing. I climbed slowly past the hidden spy.
The narrow triangles of the tower steps spiraled about the walls, expanding into a landing as they penetrated each of four levels. Tall arrowslits laid a barred pattern of light on the worn steps. A keen observer might note that the walls narrowed near the top, the spiral of the stair closing just a bit tighter than it should have. No more stairs existed beyond the fourth landing. Were an invading enemy to harry him so far, a besieged warrior could make his last stand there with no escape but his blade. The enemy could not know that the lady or the heir of the house had preceded this last defender into a secret place.
Pausing at the eighth stair past the third landing, and making a great show of sneaking, I twisted the head of a stone gargoyle and pressed hard on the blank stone beneath the ugly carving. Though I worried briefly that my scheme might be foiled by time and neglect, the stone slab soon swung away from me, revealing a steep narrow stair between the inner and outer wall of the tower. Narrow shafts in the outer stonework, invisible from below, supplied light and air.
Carefully I slipped through the opening and pushed the door closed, but not quite enough to let the gargoyle slip back into position. I ran up the steps to the tiny room at the top of the tower, the secret room where the lady and the heir could huddle terrified until their champions repelled the invaders, or where they would die by their own hands if all hope was lost.
The wind gusted through a small door to the outside. Past the door, five more steps led up to an open stone platform, centered by a firepit. This platform, hidden behind the crown of the tower, was the highest point in all of Comigor Castle, commanding a view that stretched to the horizon in every direction. The vast forest of Tennebar made a dark line in the west, while the snowcapped peaks of the Dorian Wall were just visible far to the southwest.
I smiled as the door from the inner stair creaked slightly, and I counted the steps it would take him to see where I had gone… Six, seven paces across the room and peer out the door… Four, five steps. Now peek around the low wall that faces the platform and open your mouth in astonishment.
“In this place only a bird can look down on you,” I said. I was perched on the parapet between two merlons, eating an apple, my feet dangling over the wide world. “To my mind it’s quite the most spectacular view in all of Leire.”
As I had thought it might, the wonder of the place stole away the boy’s determination to remain apart. He was soon leaning over the wall on which I sat.
He moved slowly around the parapet, his eyes wide, his red-brown hair blowing wildly. I said nothing more until he completed his survey and stood beside the metal box that sat in the crenel beside me. He glanced up at me quickly.
“Do you want to see what’s in it?” I was careful not to smile.
He shrugged and said nothing, backing away a few steps.
“You’ve been interested in my doings these past days.”
He flushed, but didn’t run away.
I opened the box and pulled out a cloth bag. “When I was a girl and wanted to be alone, I often came up here. I didn’t want anyone to spy me going in and out of the secret door, so I made sure to keep a box of supplies up here-a metal box to keep out the mice. I pretended I was the lady of the keep, and I needed enough food to sustain me until I could be rescued. That’s what all this was built for, you know. At one time a supply of wood was kept in the secret room, so a balefire could be lit in this firepit to let the lord’s troops know survivors were waiting for help.”
From the bag I pulled out two more apples, a chunk of dry bread, and a lump of cheese, and set them beside me. From another bundle came a flask of wine and two mugs, then a tightly rolled shawl, a cloak, three candles, flint and steel, and a book.
I held up the shawl and the cloak. “It’s nice to have something soft to sit or lean on, and, of course, the wind never stops, so at sundown, even in summer, it can get chilly. But the stars make it worth the wait. That’s everything in my box. As with most things that look mysterious or frightening, it is really quite ordinary.”
The boy narrowed his eyes, waiting.
I poured a mug of wine, stuck the rolled cloak between my back and the merlon, and picked up the book. “Help yourself to something to eat if you like,” I said and began to read.
After only a few moments, the boy turned on his heel and disappeared down the steps. Too much to expect he’d say anything.
Gerick continued to watch me for the next few days, though he was quieter and more careful in his stalking. I was pleased in a way, for it meant he was still interested, and there was some hope that my scheme would succeed. Late one afternoon, as I started up the tower stair once again and passed the lumpy rug on the first landing, I said, “If you come, I’ll show you how to open the door. Then you can go up whenever you like.”
He didn’t answer, but when I reached the eighth step past the third landing, the boy stood at my elbow. Without saying a word, I demonstrated how to turn the gargoyle’s head and push on the proper place. Once I had it open, I shut it again and let Gerick try. He struggled a bit with the stiff and balky mechanism, but I didn’t offer to help. When he managed to get it open, I acknowledged his success with a nod and started up the inner stair. “You can come too if you wish,” I said. “I won’t bother you.”
He stayed well behind me, and he sat himself in his own crenel while I settled down once more to read. I poured myself a mug of wine, but didn’t offer him any or attempt any conversation. After an hour or so of pretending not to watch me, he left.
After that, I went up to the northwest tower every few days, and on occasion found Gerick there. I always asked him if he minded my staying, and he always shook his head, but inevitably he left within half an hour. Had I not heard his voice on my first day at Comigor, I might have believed him mute.
Every morning he worked with the Kerotean swordmaster in the fencing yard. Although Gerick tried hard, he wasn’t very good. His form was poor and his attacks more earnest than effective. But he was still young. The language difficulty was surely part of the problem. Once the Kerotean master had demonstrated a move, all his coaching and teaching was in the way of waving his hands and stamping his feet.
Three more weeks passed, and it seemed I was getting nowhere, but at least matters were no worse. And then on one evening I found ink spilled over the papers on the writing desk in my study. There had been little of importance on the desk: a letter to my friend Tennice’s father asking for advice about roofs and forges, a shopping list for Nancy’s next trip to Graysteve, half a sheet of musical notation for a melody I was trying to remember. But of course, the value of what was destroyed was not the measure of the loss. Nor was it the invasion of my privacy, for I had clearly left myself open to such a violation. I almost laughed when I realized what bothered me so sorely. It was the lack of imagination. I had been consigned by a ten-year-old to the company of weak-willed tutors and spineless schoolmasters. All my cleverness had advanced me not a whit. I was insulted.